


Fuss & Bother

by Ilthit



Series: Milliner Mysteries [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Country House Party, F/M, Gen, Humor, Mystery, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, cozy mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23834332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/pseuds/Ilthit
Summary: Jane Milliner is leaving tomorrow on a cycling tour of the countryside, and nothing will stop her.
Relationships: Detective On Vacation & All The Potential Mysteries She Keeps Dodging (OW), Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Series: Milliner Mysteries [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717342
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6
Collections: Id Pro Quo 2020





	Fuss & Bother

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DesertVixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertVixen/gifts).



> Part two of the Milliner Mysteries series, and possibly the final one. Written for DesertVixen as part of the IdProQuo exchange, because the first Milliner story didn't quite match up to the tag we were matched on.

The only reason Jane had agreed to attend Mrs Harrington-Thomas's spring garden party was because she had confidently believed her sister-in-law Harriet would be there. They were to meet here, spend a day or two with the family, and then take their bicycles across the country to admire the scenery and, perhaps, add a few pages to Jane's book of botanical samples. Instead, Harriet had been called upon to lecture the gentlemen of Eton on lenience and youthful high spirits after they had temporarily suspended her son for some prank involving water-balloons, and Jane had been stuck as the only family representative in a house of pleasant, respectable, and terribly boring people, none of whom could hold a decent conversation about the toxic qualities of the common foxglove.

Angular, severely dressed, and sour, Jane had never been anyone's first choice of house-guest, but Harriet, her curvy, lively sister-in-law and dearest friend in the world, had ensured that she know a great many things about a great many people, often more than they would like her to know. There by the tea-table under the tent, tucking into the biscuits, was the head of the family, James Harrington-Thomas, who only last spring had run away with a typist from his bank and set up a second home in the family's vacation house in Bath. There, Mr Bennington the vicar, known for his love of strong spirits, hobnobbing with a Russian emigré, who had reportedly left behind an enormous fortune when he had been forced to escape the revolutionaries. There, seated on one of the benches, was Penelope Harrington-Thomas, bouncing a babe in her arms whose origin no-one quite dared to question. Charitable friends assumed a secret marriage and an early widowhood, but the charitable ones were in the minority. And there, by the bouquets of roses cut from her own garden, making small talk with the guests, was Cora Harrington-Thomas, who since the double shocks of her husband's infidelity and her daughter's pregnancy last year had taken up visiting a psychic. Jane understood she had spent a good amount of money on various charms and advice from a spirit guardian named Chem, a druid who had been drowned in the local river by Christian crusaders in the 10 th century. Even had Jane approved of psychics, she would have questioned the wisdom of relying on someone who managed to get himself murdered by crusaders a hundred years before the first crusade.

Indeed, the only subject anyone outside her club or family would willingly talk to Jane Milliner about was secrets, and even then it was only ever those of other people.

The house loomed over the garden, and over it loomed a clear blue sky, a blessing on any hostess. Jane sipped her tea and squinted at the horizon, looking for a tell-tale shadow of a cloud. It had been warmer than usual for the past few days—perhaps there was a storm brewing. If so, she hoped to nip into the vegetable gardens before the skies opened and see how this year's chives were coming along. She was broken out of her contemplation by the realization that someone had just addressed her.

"Mr Whitney," she said. "Yes, I suppose it is a 'smashing' party." She was quite sure he could hear the quotation marks, because of the way his brows knit and his lower lip protruded. Mr Whitney was a round, pale young man with a moustache that had not quite got there yet; a butterfly fancier, as Jane now recalled, which was a fact in his favour. She tilted her head. There must have been a reason for him to approach her. "Though I must say I am not enjoying it. Are you?"

He had been about to continue, but now it seemed her directness had dumbfounded him once again. Jane tried once more. "Mr Whitney, what do you want?"

"I, I, I just… That is to say… I…"

"Spit it out, young man."

"My mother, that is, Mrs Whitney, you know…"

"Yes, I know Margaret Whitney," Jane said, stretching her patience. She was a village fixture, a busybody and a frequent organizer of church raffles along with the vicar, Mr Bennington. Every village had one; the type seemed inexplicably fond of floral pattern dresses.

"Well, I think she may have got herself involved in a spot of demonic witchcraft."

It was now Jane's turn to do some silent staring.

"In her spare time only, you know," Mr Whitney hurried to add. "To keep busy between the fair seasons and such. Only I don't think it's quite on, and people might talk, and Mr Bennington might have to stop hiring her to do the church accounting if he finds out what she's been up to with the consecrated host that keeps going missing. Couldn't you have a word with her about it? If she thinks someone like you knows, then… you know… she might think twice. I was going to ask Mrs Milliner."

"Of course you were." Harriet would have been just the person for the job. Jane's sister-in-law was amicable and exceedingly helpful. That was why, between them, Jane and Harriet had helped find a few killers, and many more thieves and cheaters. Margaret Whitney may be a busybody, but she would have to get busy indeed to keep up with the Milliners.

Psychics and devil-worshippers—what was becoming of Englishwomen these days? "Mr Whitney," said Jane, "please talk to your mother yourself. I am going to look at the chives. You may tag along, but only if you are there for the natural sciences—unnatural ones have nothing to do with me."

"I suppose there could be a  _ Pieris rapae _ or two in the vegetable garden," said Mr Whitney meekly. "Maybe it isn't really worth kicking up a fuss about, then, do you think?" There was something hopeful in his tone. Jane could sympathize; she was very much against fuss.

"That's the spirit," said Jane, and even took Mr Whitney's arm to pull him along towards the vegetable gardens.

To reach their destination, one had to round the house, and the shortest route took them through the rose gardens first. These were not great in size, but beautiful, and Jane commented on the health of the blooms to Mr Whitney, who agreed that the Harrington-Thomases' head-gardener, Eddings, really was something of a wizard, even if Mrs Harrington-Thomas had neglected her hothouse all year in favour of Madame du Bray's sessions, and even let the region's flower show pass her by.

They had fallen silent just for a moment as Mr Whitney carefully picked up a bee that had got itself caught in the impossible folds of a rose, and hence were unobserved as another pair approached from the other side of the garden, talking quietly. Mr Whitney froze, while Jane pricked up her ears. "I will not have you interfering," said a throaty voice. "If you insist on keeping up this game, then you don't know me and I've never even heard of you!"

"But Alva, darling—imagine what we could do between us—! I'll let you in on the current gig. We'll clean up, and go back on the road. To Paris—"

"Tommy, give it up. I don't need you, and you can't blackmail me, not with everything I could tell them about you! And Cora listens to me. I advise her in all things—love, money… You mind your own act and stay away from mine!"

Jane discreetly pulled Mr Whitney behind a particularly luscious trellis as a short, plump woman in rattling beads and a dramatic, if much-mended, black silk dress swept past. Mr Whitney looked about to squeak, but psychic—for this must be Madame du Bray—passed out of the garden without looking back. Affecting a touch of drama herself, Jane stepped boldly out from behind the trellis and gave the man she had been talking to a curious look. 'Tommy' nearly jumped out of his purple morning coat. "Count Kozlov," Jane greeted him. "Out to smell the roses?"

"Er, how long did—I mean, yes." He slipped back into his accent, and affected an aristocratic sneer. "These English gardens—nothing like the ones we had at home, but pretty. If you like it rustic."

"What a terrible blow it must have been to you, to lose that family estate."

"Yes—our estate in Moscow, our fortune—Terrible shame."

"Terrible," said Jane coolly. "Well, we must be off. Do enjoy the roses." She pulled Mr Whitney along with her.

"Did you hear that?" Mr Whitney hissed once they were out of earshot. He really was not made for hissing; it came out rather wet. "That isn't a real Russian count! Goodness! And everybody's been going on about him so, ever since he settled at the Goat and Apple two weeks ago."

"Mr Whitney," said Jane, "it really is none of our business. Think of the  _ Pieris rapae _ ."

"But…"

"Trust me. You do not want to get involved in other people's business—not if you intend to have your own life and live it, too. I am going to leave for my cycling tour tomorrow, and I refuse to be drawn into any nonsense that might delay it. I am not my sister-in-law, after all."

"One ought to do something," Mr Whitney insisted.

"One can wait until tomorrow noon."

"I… I must… I'm sorry." Mr Whitney broke from her and hurried off, back towards the party. Jane let him go with some misgivings. She could only wish he was too mild-mannered to make a scene now.

She continued on, the thought of chives and a moment of quiet contemplation spurring her on, though her calm was beginning to dissolve. How could one think of chives when danger lay so thick in the air? She could taste it—the near-inevitability of a bother to come, and no Harriet around to weather the part where one actually had to talk to people.

Her last hope of peace dwindled when she peeked over the low gate into the walled vegetable garden and saw Neville Eddings on his knees next to the turnips, crying into his mud-streaked hands. Crumpled between them was a piece of pink letter-paper.

She backed away as quietly as she could.

Time had come to retreat. Jane snuck quietly to the French windows that led from the grounds to the drawing room, pausing first to listen for sounds of any more damning conversations she might end up overhearing. The coast seemed clear, and so she slipped into the house and hurried up the grand staircase and down the myriad hallways to the room she had been given for the weekend. The creaking, labyrinthine house was never short of bedrooms, even when hosting a large gathering. Jane’s room looked out over the lawn, and, leaning out her window, she could make out the white top of the tent, but hear absolutely nothing. Good. She settled into going over her luggage for the following day, including the bicycle pump and the holstered service pistol she kept to fend off the sort of attacks a lone woman cycling through the countryside might attract.

There was satisfaction in taking everything out of her already-packed bags, double-checking and carefully folding them, and putting them back, and this happy practice kept her occupied for a half-hour. Jane had not kept a maid since she first moved out of her childhood home and into her flat in London, and she still counted learning to go without one as one of the best decisions she had ever made. It was much easier to control one's things than to control another person; no-one else would be quite precise enough.

Speaking of maids and precision, whoever was in the hallway wiping the floor had been squeaking back and forth the same spot for far too long. Either the Harrington-Thomases had a new girl or, God forbid, it was another mystery. Either way, it was becoming annoying, and a glance at the clock told her she really did have to re-join the party soon. There would be turkey, and the house did boast a rather good cook. She checked her lapels in the mirror and tiptoed to the door, then banged it open loudly.

The girl nearly jumped out of her skin. She was holding one of those modern contraptions for cleaning floors, a sort of a box with a handle attached and wet sponges on the bottom. She looked vaguely familiar, and it occurred to Jane that she seemed to recognize her too. Of course, one was more likely to be known by a servant than to know one oneself…

Jane narrowed her eyes. She had a rather excellent memory. "Miss Thomas," she said. "Ginny Thomas. Third cousin of Penelope. Author of some newspaper articles about the working poor, I believe. This is rather an odd get-up for a cousin of the house, I must say."

"Miss Milliner," Ginny gasped. "It… it isn't what you think."

"Oh, good," said Jane. "Then I assume there is a perfectly innocent explanation."

"There is!" Ginny said, pursing her lips. "Or… at least a good one. A righteous one…"

"Jolly good," said Jane, and closed the door behind her. "Carry on, then."

She met no-one on the stairs and exited the way she had entered, through the French windows, ignoring the lingering scent of crushed rose petals and the crumpled up piece of paper in the fireplace that had been lit early despite the weather being warm, and found her way to the tend and the buffet table beautifully stacked with hearty pastries and savoury treats ahead of the cold turkey service. She accepted a cup of tea and considered her options.

"Miss Milliner!" Mr Whitney had spotted her across the tent, and was dodging guests with a plate of jiggling jelly in his hand. Jane waited patiently. The fork was lost somewhere half-way through, and as he reached her side, he put the jelly down on the table beside them with an apologetic air.

"Mr Whitney."

"I couldn't do it," he blurted out. "I couldn't call the police. They would make such a fuss, and—and it isn't as if I'd like them to interview everyone, let alone search people. I am almost certain my mother is wearing an inverted cross dipped in sheep's blood hooked to her waist, under her dress. She says it's to protect herself against jealous rumours."

Jane glanced around, ready, despite herself, to look for a suspicious bulge under Margaret Whitney's flower-patterns, but the lady was a mere suggestion of a large blue hat in the distance.

"I see. You did the right thing."

"Did I?" He sucked in the inside of his cheek and worried it. It made his attempt at a moustache reverberate.

"Well, we cannot entirely discount the possibility that the fake Count Kozlov intends on robbing the Harrington-Thomases tonight," Jane said, swirling the sugar in her cup of tea, "perhaps with the aid of a poor relation who has been sneaking around the house dressed as a maid to collect keys and open windows, all under the mistaken understanding that their takings will be shared with the proletariat. There are worse things—such as discovering the gardener is in love with one of the ladies of the house. Goodness, we may even find out that Mr Bennington's church raffle money has been going towards his private collection of expensive whiskeys, which might go some way into explaining why your mother's involvement with the parish has been secure for so long. But all of this is nothing but conjecture. Had one any shred of  _ real _ evidence of a crime about to be committed, one ought certainly to go to the police."

Mr Whitney's mouth hung open in amazement.

"One does not," said Jane, "unless one goes looking for it. Here." She reached into her pocket and offered Mr Whitney a card. "This is the number to call when, during your night-time vigil in the second corridor on the left from the entrance hall, up one flight of stairs, by the suit of armour, you come across a shady character sneaking across the hall, and apprehend him before he can reach the library and the family safe hidden within it. The inspector will come quickly and without asking too many questions, especially if you mention my name. You may wish to ask Mr Eddings for assistance; two men are better than one, even if they are only there to catch a sneak-thief. Naturally, it would all be done on a mere hunch. But if you are wrong, neither of you will have lost anything much beyond a good night's sleep. If you are right, why, Mr Whitney, the two of you would be heroes. Perhaps heroic enough to sway a cold heart."

In honesty, she could not guess whether that pink letter paper had been Cora's or Penelope's—either way, if poor Eddings's affection was returned at all, the lovers' greatest enemy would be Cora's steadfast sense of propriety.

She pressed the card into his hand. "The telephone is right down the hall, as you may recall."

"I… I do recall," said Mr Whitney weakly.

"Good man. Now, you really ought to finish your jelly. It is almost time for turkey."

-

The morning had dawned crisp and bright, but Jane had lingered in her room, satisfied to finish her toilette without hurry. The rest of the house was unlikely to have gathered for breakfast yet, unless they had foregone sleep altogether. Jane's room was, thankfully, in a farther corner of the house, in which she had heard only the muffled echo of a distant fuss, turned to her side, and gone back to sleep. She now dressed in her cycling outfit, rechecked her packed bags, and took them down to the garage where her bicycle was stowed.

The crunch of the gravel of the driveway tempted her. She could be off right now, with no-one the wiser, and riding through the birdsong towards the next village without ever having to talk to another soul at least until she stopped for lunch. But one really ought to take proper farewell of one's hosts, so she merely wheeled her vehicle out and parked it ready to go by the driveway.

"Miss Milliner."

She became aware of the eyes lurking in the corner of the great doors and turned, resigned. "Inspector."

"I did not see you among the concerned citizens last night," said Inspector Jameson. He was a short, compact, bullet-shaped man with a belly that seemed to protrude a little more every time they met, but handsome—still handsome in a way, even as his tightly curled and close-cropped black hair had begun to grey at the temples. Jane really disliked him very much. The feeling was not mutual.

"Perhaps because I was not concerned."

"Weren't you?"

"Oh, don't start, Julius," Jane scoffed. "I do not wish to be concerned. I am going out cycling. The forecast is good and I have been looking forward to this all spring. I have  _ not _ been looking forward to spending the first day of my vacation inside an interview room. I saw nothing. I was  _ not _ involved. And I am leaving as soon as I have said my good-byes to Cora and James."

"You won't stay for breakfast?" Inspector Jameson inquired mildly. "I hear there will be strawberry tarts."

Jane's mouth watered. "Well," she conceded, "one ought to start out with a full belly, I suppose."

The road and the birdsong would still be there in an hour.

  
_~ The End ~_


End file.
